


The Fog Has Eyes

by WriteMessyShit



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Ableist Language, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Explicit Language, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Manic Episode, Misogyny, Murderers, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Pegging, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Prison, Prison Sex, Rape Roleplay, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25838137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteMessyShit/pseuds/WriteMessyShit
Summary: Marcus Gillows transfers to Mount Massive Asylum to participate in medical research to have time off his sentence. There, he unfortunately falls in love with the dashing (although seemingly straight) Edward "Eddie" Gluskin.But Eddie is not quite what he seems. And the strange operations at Mount Massive have only begun to unfurl.Just beneath the surface, something lurks. Knowing it could save everything. Or it could ruin everything. In the delicate, decaying balance of Mount Massive, is it better to know and be damned, or know nothing at all?
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Original Character(s), Eddie Gluskin/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	The Fog Has Eyes

My eyes scan the showers. Naked bodies face away from me. Fluorescent lights illuminate shiny, wet skin, no empty faucets available. Bodies remain huddled off to themselves. The tile is cold on my bare feet, and one touch of a puddle makes me freeze up. My body won’t move. Then, a hand shoves me forward, and I stumble into the center of the room, shivering.

The windows are dark. I haven’t seen a window all day. They drugged me to bring me here. I didn’t understand why. I was never violent. Discolored, gray wastewater rushes past me with remnants of used suds. I step carefully over the dirty stream. But it seems to come out of the showerheads like that.

“Move.”

The guard’s voice shocks me like a thunderclap, echoing through the room. But there are no showers open. I step toward a wall and squeeze an arm through to grab the soap. The man next to me steps aside. I happen to glance at his face. He looks at me right back, and I quickly lower my gaze again. I rub the soap over my body, everywhere, even my hair. There doesn’t seem to be shampoo.

The man bends down and puts only his head under the water. His body tenses. The cold spray hits me too, and I flinch. His hair, a single dark strip down the center of his head, frays out beneath the stream. Quickly, he stands back up again, safe from the water, and he considers another entry. He’s taller than me, buffer. He seems a bit older, too, maybe in his early forties. His cheekbones are high, his face almost beautiful, but still angular. Carefully, he gets back under the water, turning fast to allow the water to run down his back, and then he jumps back out. He rubs the water out of his face and hair, eyes closed, brows furrowed in what I can only imagine to be chills. Seeing that he’s not watching, I let my eyes wander down his body. His torso is thick and muscled. Water droplets roll down his hairy legs. Dark pubes curl sopping wet over his penis. He’s shriveled up in the cold. When he runs a hand over his hair, I turn away.

It’s a stupid thought. It really is. But I wonder what he looks like warm and bulging.

I step under the free showerhead. My bones turn to ice. It takes everything I have not to cry out, not to dance in pain. I start rubbing my hands over my body, just to get the suds off faster. My hair is still dripping ice down the back of my neck as I step away. I try to press the water out. My nipples are pointy as arrows, my skin covered with goosebumps. Ahead of me, that man has already made it to the guard and received a towel. The light above him in the hallway makes his wet ass glisten.

God, he’s beautiful.

He’s like a better version of Carter from back in Texas. I know I’m in Colorado now. It’s a place I’ve never heard of, a name I’ve already forgotten. I don’t even know this place yet, and I’m already scoping out the dick. I don’t even know his name. I’ve spent all day recovering from anesthesia, and the first thing I notice with a sane mind is some guy’s hot ass.

I walk quickly to exit, and the guard hands me the same towel he used. I wipe off everything I can. Once I’m dry, it isn’t so cold, but I’m still naked. A few more men come up behind me, and I pass back the towel. My eyes dart down the hallway after him. He’s disappearing around the corner. I hurry to follow him.

Our footsteps echo through the silence. Up ahead, I can hear a guard calling off numbers. I avoid stepping on a stain. This prison feels off. The paint peels from the walls, the floors are dirty. Even the showers have signs of decay, with cracked tiles all over the floor. The drain was only a partially-clogged hole in the middle of the room.

As we get closer to the block, we fall into a line. The closer we get to the block door, the noisier it gets. I can’t believe it. People scream bloody murder in there. I remember waking up in a cell, my cell, but not to the sound of screaming. I must have been drugged still. The cold shower woke me up.

The closer I get, the more I can see inside. It’s like a nightmare. I can see people shaking their cell doors like maniacs. I don’t belong here. I’m not manic. I’ve never attacked anyone in prison. I didn’t do anything to be transferred here to begin with.

Ahead of me, the man makes it to the door. A correctional officer holds a clipboard.

“Name,” he drones, not looking up.

“Eddie Gluskin.”

He looks like an Eddie. Sounds like an Eddie. His ass seems like that of an Eddie.

The officer turns and speaks to another just inside the door. “Thirteen.”

The second one grabs Eddie by the arm and pulls him around a corner. Next to a fully-clothed person, I realize how strange we must look stark naked. But that’s by design. Prisons like to dehumanize you.

“Name.”

I snap forward.

“Marcus Gillows.”

The officer skims his clipboard. I can’t remember what my cell number is yet. It’s probably good I’m being reminded.

“Twelve.”

Another officer takes my arm gruffly, and I’m pulled across the threshold. My feet nearly scrape on the grated floor. Already, I can hear people shaking their metal cell gates. One person is screaming about the war. The guard’s grip doesn’t relent, even while I cooperate. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m sane. It doesn’t make sense. We walk to and from the showers by ourselves, but need guidance to our cells? But the flailing arms reaching between bars gets me to reconsider. Maybe they’re protecting us from each other. I try to think clearly, but still, some of that drug is in me, I feel.

The officer stops at the end of the row of cells. Across the block, from above and below, I hear echoing yells and screams. The guard pushes me into my cell.

“Clothe yourself.”

It seems demeaning. Why do I need to be told to do that? Who would want to remain naked in a place like this. I feel more watched here than I ever have.

Fresh clothes have been left for me on the bed, a gray shirt and matching pants. As I unfold them and put them on, I realize they’re not so fresh. They smell awful, but I can’t put my finger on what. It’s a mixture of piss and body odor, but something else, too.

When I turn around and look out the front of my cell, I can see figures in cages across the expanse. Over the railing, the block keeps going down and down.

I glance to my right. The next cell over is Thirteen. There’s a tiny gap between the bars and the concrete wall, an inch worth of space. I walk over and press my face as close to the opening as possible.

“Your name is Eddie, right?”

At first, I wonder if he can even hear me over the noise. Then, I wonder if he even wants to talk, if anybody here even wants to converse with one another. I haven’t spoken to anyone yet.

A figure appears, blocking the light in the gap.

“Yes,” he says. His voice is low and careful.

“I’m Marcus. I just transferred here today.”

Eddie remained silent. Behind me, a shout startled me. “Piss and shit in your ears, you fuckin’ wanker. I’ll make you cry.”

I turned back toward Eddie.

“What the hell is this place?”

He only looked at me. In the block light, I could see his eyes were blue, or maybe green. His face seems unaffected by the man screaming behind me. His eyes look distant.

Then, suddenly, he looks at me.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is smooth. “You can lose your train of thought easily here.”

A guard’s voice echoes across the room. “Lock down! Lights out! Block B!”

A breaker slams, and the lights shut off except for the catwalks. It’s still bright in my cell. Too bright to sleep. The screaming continues.

“What is this place?” I ask again. “I just got here and I was drugged. I don’t know where I am.”

“It’s called Mount Massive Asylum. This is rehabilitation for violent criminals.”

I can barely hear him over the noise, and he’s right here.

“How long have you been here?”

“A couple weeks.”

“It’s therapy?”

“I don’t know.”

The sound of metal rattling starts a ringing in my ears. I can barely hear myself think. Above me, a man starts screaming violently. I think he’s getting beaten.

“There are crazies here,” says Eddie.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Don’t be one of them. They’ll beat you for anything.”

“They beat you?”

“Not yet.”

“I thought this was rehab.”

“That’s what I was told.”

“You from out of state?”

“No.”

“Oh. I’m from Texas.”

“Ah.”

He steps away from the gap. “I’m going to sleep.”

I wonder how he’ll manage to. It’s so loud.

He moves out of sight. Slowly, I turn to my bed and lay down. But all I can do is stare at the ceiling. Above me, the man starts wailing again. I don’t have a pillow to cover my ears with. I shut my eyes and use my hands.


End file.
